Folie à Deux
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". Grace has a birthday looming, and Boyd's a man with a plan. Sadly, Grace doesn't know it... Complete. Commissioned by Gemenied to celebrate a certain WtD birthday. Just generally T-rated. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

**7th December 2011. **_This one was commissioned by_  
><em>Gemenied to celebrate Sue Johnston's birthday today.<em>  
><em>There were a few stipulations - but you can ask<em>  
><em>Gemenied about that if you're interested. ;)<em>  
><em>So, enjoy the ride people and happy birthday to <em>  
><em>Sue andor Grace! _

* * *

><p><strong>Folie à Deux<strong>

by Joodiff

* * *

><p><strong>1: Stupidly Heroic<strong>

She is not very subtle about it at all, and though he hides it well, it amuses Boyd no end. Quite deliberately, he maintains a façade of complete indifference about the whole thing, and it seems that the more blasé he appears the less subtle she becomes, the hints crashing around him like falling boulders. It's really very funny, given just how often in the past she has accused him of behaving like a child. Equable as she usually is, she's definitely starting to simmer beneath the composure, and that amuses him, too. He wonders how long it will be before the unsubtle hinting becomes affronted sulking. He's far more prone to it than she is, but as in so many other things when she does it the repercussions are infinitely worse. No-one who knows him is ever surprised when Boyd storms and sulks – he's always been notoriously unpredictable – but when Grace does it everyone pays attention. Including Boyd himself. He knows the blistering sting of her temper far too well, and it's not something he's ever keen to invoke.

Contrary to popular belief, however, Peter Boyd is not quite as oblivious to the varying moods of the female of the species as he generally chooses to appear, and he suspects that waking up alone that morning is a fairly good indication that she's definitely not happy with him. Given their semi-retired state, hurrying out of bed at the crack of dawn to prepare for the day ahead has more-or-less become a distant memory, and he's well-aware of just how fond Grace is of dozily curling up against him until they languidly decide that they really should make an effort to face the day. Waking up to find the space in the bed next to him cool and empty is a bad sign. Possibly a very, very bad sign, in fact.

For several minutes Boyd stays exactly where he is, staring contemplatively at the high ceiling above him. The room faces east, and the cold, bright morning light is spilling in ruthlessly through gaps in the curtains. He's still not used to it. More than twenty years he's owned the house, and he's only been sleeping in the big bedroom at the rear for the last two months. The relocation of their sleeping quarters was one of the non-negotiable items on the extensive list of terms and conditions attached to long-term cohabitation, one he grumpily acceded to simply because he had no other choice. He really doesn't see why permanently sharing what was once his marital bedroom back in the mists of time is any different from all the times Grace uncomplainingly shared it with him before moving in lock, stock and proverbial barrel, but as far as Boyd is concerned women on the whole are mysterious creatures, and compliance is often far easier – and ultimately more beneficial – than opposition.

Still not making any effort to get out of bed, he scratches his short, bristly beard reflectively. Grace doesn't know it, but Boyd is a man with a plan. He knows exactly what he's doing and he's doing it the only way he knows – confidently, efficiently and with a lot of shouting and bull-headed determination. Time is running out, but he isn't worried; he's ahead of schedule and just as long as she's still talking to him when the actual day finally dawns he's certain that everything is going to go smoothly. He yawns, and for a brief moment he's tempted to roll over, close his eyes, go back to sleep and let her do her worst, but common-sense eventually wins out over tiredness and moments later he's on his feet and heading downstairs.

Grace is in the kitchen. The urge to slyly comment on the suitability of her location is easily outweighed by a very healthy respect for his own skin. She does not look like a happy woman, even with her back firmly towards him. There's tension in her stance, and she's doing whatever it is she's doing with sharp movements and far more noise than Boyd suspects is strictly necessary. He's fairly certain that she isn't cooking breakfast for him. Or ever intends to again, in fact. On closer inspection she seems to be making coffee. For one. The way she slams the mug in her hand down onto the expensive granite work surface makes him wince, but he isn't the kind of man who cracks easily under pressure so he merely wanders across the room towards her and asks rhetorically, "All right?"

The reply is a sharp whiplash. "Fine."

He's right. She's not a happy woman.

-oOo-

Impatiently, she says again, "Boyd."

He looks up at her, but though he's smiling slightly his expression suggests that all he really wants is to be left in peace to finish reading the daily paper. Sadly, even his choice of newspaper is currently infuriating Grace almost beyond endurance. He reads the Telegraph, she reads the Guardian and never the twain shall meet. Yet his answering tone is irritatingly placid. "Grace."

She can hear the shrewish note in her own voice and she hates it. Even as she works her way steadily through her list of domestic moans and groans she's wondering exactly when the twin delights of enjoyable companionship and a healthy sex-life became impossibly mired in the kind of mundane trivia that's supposed to plague other people, not them. Grace refuses to believe they're already growing complacent, not after the long, exhausting marathon they've run to get this far. It's her. She thinks it's almost certainly her. Because she's stupidly angry with him just for being who and what he is.

It dawns on her that Boyd hasn't said a single word throughout her angry, exaggerated tirade, and his silence makes her look at him more carefully for a moment. His elbow is resting on the table, his chin is propped on his hand, and he's watching her contemplatively over the top of his reading glasses. It's a familiar pose, one she's known for years. The expression of amused tolerance that accompanies it is equally familiar. The combination is expressive, and it tells her that he's in the kind of quiet, mellow mood that will preclude an explosion of temper unless she keeps pushing him.

Abruptly self-aware, Grace says, "God, I sound like my mother."

His reply is languid. "Yeah, well I'm not your father."

Before she can stop herself, she snaps back, "I know that – my father was a sympathetic, sensitive man."

"Ouch, Grace."

As angry and frustrated with herself as she is with him, she asks tartly, "Why are you even here? I thought you'd taken to roaming the streets of London all-day every-day?"

"I'm going out for a while later."

"You do surprise me."

"Meaning?

"Nothing," Grace says sulkily. "Nothing at all."

-oOo-

She knows she shouldn't let it bother her – not at her age. In fact, at her age there's a lot to be said for ignoring the whole concept of birthdays altogether. It's not as if she needs to be reminded of just how many years have marched defiantly past. Still…

Irritably, Grace gets up again. It seems she can't settle properly to do anything, and it's not just the fact that the house always seems too big and empty when Boyd's large, boisterous presence is absent. No, the whole… birthday thing… is galling her rather more than she'd ever openly admit to anyone. She's not sure why she's surprised and vaguely disappointed at his apparent disinterest – Peter Boyd is hardly the most demonstrative of men when it comes to such things. Yet, there's definitely a deep core of dissatisfaction in her. The disappointed hope that perhaps just this once he might have bothered to make an effort. Aware of the futility of the gesture, she literally shrugs to the empty room. It's not going to happen. Every hint has fallen on deaf ears, even once she abandoned subtlety altogether. If she's lucky he'll remember to buy her a gift, and if she's even luckier, he might take her out to dinner.

She's undeniably every bit as annoyed with herself as she is with him. It's petty, the resentment she's feeling. Petty and pointless. For all his shortcomings Boyd is a good man, and it shouldn't matter that he isn't as interested in such trivial things as she is. He's kind, he's generous to a fault and he's utterly devoted to her in his own quietly idiosyncratic way. So what if he's not good at things like birthdays and anniversaries? Grace is not a love-struck teenager. It doesn't matter. What matters is that after the best part of a decade of flirtation and frustration they are together, and very publicly so. What matters is that he loves her. She doesn't need the trinkets, the effusive grand gestures. It isn't him, and she knows it.

But…

Shaking her head, Grace makes another attempt at settling to read. Mid-afternoon at the very beginning of December and it's already getting dark. For a few more minutes she struggles to read in the gloom, then gives up and tosses her book querulously aside. Boyd will be back soon and despite everything she'll be happy to see him. The stupid birthday thing isn't important. Of course it's not. She looks round the big room for a moment, considering the surprisingly harmonious fusion of his things and hers. Their chosen life together isn't about gifts and celebrations. It's about love, respect and permanence. There are far worse things Boyd could be guilty of than a _laissez __faire_ attitude to such frivolities as birthdays. Better that she just accepts that he is the way he is, for better or worse. She does, after all, love him. Despite his faults. And foibles.

It's best forgotten about altogether, the… birthday issue. She's not a child. It's not important that it will be the first birthday either of them will openly celebrate in front of the world as a couple. Definitely not important. Yet…

When the telephone starts to ring, Grace jumps slightly in surprise. It's very dark now. She gets to her feet, crosses the room swiftly and picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

An unfamiliar female voice responds with, "Is that Doctor Foley? Doctor Grace Foley?"

"Yes," Grace confirms cautiously.

"I'm calling from the Accident and Emergency Department at Charing Cross Hospital," the woman says brusquely. "Your name has been given to us as a contact by a patient recently brought in by ambulance…"

The cold, leaden feeling low in her stomach is immediate and frightening. Caution gives way to anxiety and confusion as she automatically demands, "What's happened?"

"It's not serious," the voice reassures her quickly. "We have a Mr Boyd here. Peter Boyd – "

"Is he all right?" Grace asks urgently, cutting across the other woman.

"He has a broken wrist and some superficial cuts and bruises," the caller says smoothly. "Nothing to worry about. However, he is heavily concussed. We'd like to keep him in overnight for observation, but he's refusing to be admitted. We can't stop him walking out, of course, but it seems that as a compromise he's prepared to be discharged into your care – if that's acceptable to you?"

"Yes, of course," Grace says hurriedly.

"Good. If you could come and collect him…? Someone will give you further details when you get here."

"Of course," Grace says again. "Charing Cross…?"

"The A and E Department, yes," the female voice confirms. "Thank you, Doctor Foley."

-oOo-

Even without a harried-looking nurse to guide her, finding her errant partner in Accident and Emergency wouldn't be a great challenge, Grace reflects wryly. Just follow the sound of loud, bad-tempered protestation to its source. There are drunks and injured children making marginally more noise, but Boyd has the kind of voice that carries effortlessly and it's not difficult to identify the bay he's occupying.

"I'm sorry," she apologises to the nurse. "He can be a bit… difficult."

The look she receives in response suggests that the nurse thinks her description is a grave understatement. "The doctor will be along to see you shortly. In the meantime, if you could ask him to keep the noise down…?"

"Of course," Grace says, wondering why she feels quite so sheepish. It occurs to her abruptly that she still doesn't know exactly why he's in hospital, and she stops walking for a moment to ask, "Can you tell me what actually happened? How did he get hurt?

The nurse spares her only the briefest of glances. "The car side-swiped him. The child's mother is in the waiting area if you want to talk to her…"

And so the story finally comes out. A moment's inattention by a beleaguered parent trying desperately to get some Christmas shopping done, the blithe innocence of a young child fascinated by twinkling lights and festive shop-window displays, and the automatic reaction of a man who's spent almost his entire adult life in the service of the general public. Grace is, of course, fiercely proud, but she's deeply ashamed, too. Ashamed of herself for her moodiness, her tetchiness and her childish obsession with something as utterly inconsequential as her birthday. It's time for some perspective.

Finally stepping past the curtains into the bay, Grace is met by a hesitant, disarming grin that tells her that he fully expects her to be furious. He's a little battered around the edges, and his left arm is in plaster to the elbow, but in general Boyd appears every inch as irrepressible as usual. Only a touch of wariness in his dark eyes suggests he isn't entirely sure how the situation is going to play out.

Sentimentality isn't her way or his. Slowly, she shakes her head. "Idiot."

He tilts his head fractionally to one side in response, deliberately engaging. "What can I say?"

"Why do you always have to be so stupidly heroic?" Grace asks pointedly. "You're far too old to be playing at Superman, Boyd."

He gives her a look. "Thanks for that, Grace. How's the kid?"

Sighing, she says, "She's fine, just a couple of cuts and bruises. The mother's still very shocked. Clearly delusional, I'd say, given that all she keeps talking about is how wonderful the man who saved her daughter's life is."

Boyd replies languidly, "Oh, I don't know…"

She sits with him and waits for the doctor, occasionally berating him for his impatience and the sheer volume with which he manages to express his dissatisfaction without actually resorting to shouting. He can be difficult, just as she told the nurse; difficult, obstinate and bad-tempered. He can behave appallingly when it suits him and he's quite capable of being abrupt and breathtakingly rude even to those trying to help him. He's a very contradictory sort of man, and Grace knows it better than anyone. A man of extremes; very different in character from her. Many, many times she's considered her own nature and his and concluded that there must be some truth in the old adage about opposites attracting.

Grace ultimately finds the perspective she seeks, sitting with him in the hospital. She loves him for what he is, not for some idealised version of what she thinks he could be. What's important is that he's the kind of man who would act to save a child's life without thinking, not that he _isn__'__t_ the kind of man who makes a fuss about things like birthdays. Subject closed. If he remembers her birthday at all, Grace will be delighted. If he doesn't… well, it doesn't matter. Not compared to saving the life of a child.

-oOo-

Something has changed in her. Not something important or fundamental, not something that needs analysing particularly; there's just been a quiet shift in attitude. The sting in her tone has gone, the petulance has passed. Boyd says nothing, but he welcomes the renewed warmth, the return of the easy, wry affection he generally receives from her. He's fairly sure he understands, but he keeps the matter to himself. He's not quite noble enough not to play on his injuries, however, and for the balance of the evening Grace patiently fetches and carries for him, and generally panders to his fantasies of being the unchallenged lord of his own domain. It entertains him, but strangely he finds the novelty wears off surprisingly quickly.

He watches her as she eventually settles to read. Over the years Boyd has quietly elevated watching her into a minor art form. He's very good at it. Naturally observant, he's learned to read her body-language perfectly. He's not always good at interpreting the nuances of what she says – he's never really come to terms with the female proclivity for saying one thing whilst meaning something totally different – but just by watching her he can generally work out what's going on beneath the mask of perfect serenity. Grace has reached a plateau of acceptance, he realises, watching the way she's curled in the big, comfortable chair. The edginess that's been in her for days has gone.

It's the birthday thing. She's been getting angrier and more frustrated about it by the day, but now the tension's gone. She's resigned herself to his selfish disinterest and she's moved on. Boyd can't help the unworthy touch of smugness that rises in him at the realisation. Everything he's been meticulously planning and arranging for weeks is going to be so much sweeter… for them both. Even if he may never live any of it down. It doesn't matter. He's fairly sure his reputation as an intractable tyrant is already lying in ruins, and has been from the moment Grace announced to the world in general that she was going to attempt to live with him permanently.

It surprises him, the relative domestic harmony they've achieved. It's a benefit, perhaps, of knowing each other so well before making the commitment to live under the same roof. There was no need to learn how to compromise, how to make allowances – they'd already spent years learning how to do it. He ponders the matter silently, continuing to watch her, wonders if he always knew it would end up like this. He didn't, Boyd realises. In fact, it took him a long, long time to see what was right in front of him. Then, he's not renowned for being quick on the uptake about such things.

"I can feel you watching me," Grace says unexpectedly, not looking up from her book.

She probably can, too. He shrugs lazily. "I like watching you."

That makes her look up, her eyes appearing intensely blue in the light from the reading lamp next to the armchair. Her expression is – as ever – serene, but he knows her well enough to pick up on the tiny edge of uncertainty hidden behind it. It astonishes him, that she can still have moments when she's unsure, insecure. He wonders if she will ever truly believe that he's absolutely dedicated to remaining with her for the rest of his life. He hopes so, given the lengths he's going to just to attempt to prove it to her.

After a moment she smiles slightly and puts her book aside. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been side-swiped by a car, Grace," he tells her solemnly. It's true. He has a grinding headache that's settled sullenly behind his eyes, his broken wrist is throbbing dully and just about everything else aches. Still, he's escaped lightly, all things considered.

"It's bedtime," she announces, getting to her feet.

He grins at her. Truth be told, his normally extremely healthy libido is feeling just as battered as the rest of him, but Boyd doesn't believing in passing up opportunities when they arise. She shakes her head tolerantly at his grin, which only serves to pique his interest. He likes a challenge – and Grace can be a very enticing challenge when she chooses to be. That, like so much else about her, fascinates him. He watches as she moves around, doing the last-thing-at-night chores, totally absorbed by the gentle curves of her. Battered and bruised as he is, all his thoughts are very definitely running in only one direction.

She crushes his hopes with a deliberately sweet smile and an implacable, "Absolutely no chance."

Regrettably, he doesn't feel up to investing the amount of effort required to get her to change her mind.

-oOo-

**2: Happy Birthday**

Boyd's expression is very definitely smug. He says, "You thought I'd forgotten."

"I only _slightly_ thought that," Grace replies, not altogether honestly. His answering grin tells her that he doesn't believe her for a moment. Despite his age, somehow as he sits cross-legged on the bed he's managing to look far more like a triumphant little boy than a mature man who really should know better. He's evidently very pleased with himself. As well he should be, she thinks. Some considerable effort has been made, up to and including the traditional breakfast in bed. Amused, she nudges him with her foot and says, "You're just a big pussycat really, aren't you?"

Boyd subsides next to her, his head coming to rest in her lap. "And it's taken you a whole decade to work that out, has it? Some bloody psychologist you are. You like it, then? The bracelet?"

She does. He has impeccable taste, and again, clearly some effort has gone into the selection and purchase of the gift. Antique gold, heavy and lustrous, the sort of thing she'd covet quietly in a jeweller's window and refuse on principle to waste money on buying for herself. It's a good choice – bold enough and quirky enough to be worn with her costume jewellery, expensive enough and classy enough to go with the better quality pieces she reserves for special occasions. She leans down, places a gentle kiss on his forehead. "It's lovely. Thank you."

"Happy birthday, Grace. Are we counting backwards now?"

She cuffs him lightly, amused by the sulky pout he affects in response. "You know what they say about older women, Peter…"

"I know what they say about older women who shack up with younger men…"

It ends as she expects; as she wants. It ends with Boyd sprawled beneath her, grinning in feral delight as she proves to him yet again that age is just a number, and that there's a good deal of life left in both of them yet. It ends with the surging power of his hips, the intense shuddering of her body, and the soft cries and moans that bind them both together in something primitive and intense. It ends in love and lust. Ultimately it ends in Grace knowing she was absolutely right – for adults, birthday celebrations are silly, trivial things… but there's a lot to be said for quietly hoping that they don't pass completely unmarked.

-oOo-

"What are you up to?" Grace asks him, many, many hours later, her voice heavily laced with suspicion. She's giving him the kind of shrewd, no-nonsense look that would certainly cause a lesser man to start fidgeting nervously.

Boyd is not a lesser man. True, his broken wrist has resulted in one or two minor modifications to his plans, but on balance the changes are not bad ones. He smirks at her and replies disingenuously, "What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

"I know you," she says simply. "You've got that look – the one that says you've either done something you're very pleased with yourself about, or you've done something you know I'm going to thoroughly disapprove of. Or a combination of both."

"You wound me," Boyd tells her, but he can't quite exorcise his grin. "Just go upstairs and put your glad rags on, will you?"

"How am I supposed to know what to wear if you won't tell me where we're going?"

He sighs deliberately. "That's such a… female… thing to say."

"Has it entirely escaped your notice that I _am_ female?"

"God, no. I wasn't a detective for the better part of thirty years for nothing, Grace."

"Oh, so you can tell the difference, then?"

"I think you know the answer to that," he tells her mildly.

He likes it, the easy banter. Always has, of course, but he likes it just as much – if not more – in a domestic setting. Grace Foley is incredibly good for him and Boyd knows it. She may occasionally infuriate him to the point where his quick temper flares against his will, but he can no longer imagine being without her. She makes him laugh, gives him a focus in his life that he desperately needs. He's a born protector and in many ways Grace has filled the aching, empty space left by the tragic death of his son. All those strong, thwarted paternal instincts – appropriately modified – have finally found an outlet. She accuses him of being far too fiercely protective towards her, but it's an accusation Boyd is happy to bear. He doesn't really understand how they've ended up as they are, but it doesn't matter. The colleague who became a personal friend has eventually become his partner, his lover, the woman he's going to end his days with. Nor does he really understand what Grace sees in him, but whatever it is, it's strong enough and real enough to have survived the hardest and bitterest of times.

In the end, Boyd escorts her upstairs himself, his intentions considerably more honourable than they usually are. Grace shakes her head and takes her sartorial cues from him, only raising her eyebrows a little when he eventually locates his dinner jacket and then starts the irritating, laborious process of fastening his silk bowtie, a process made even more exasperating by the limited movement the cast on his left wrist affords him.

"Why do you bother?" Grace asks, sitting at the recently-acquired antique dressing table, her attention all on the mirror as she does arcane things with hair and make-up. "You always end up losing your temper. Just buy one of those pre-tied – "

"Grace," Boyd says, and his disgust is only partially feigned. "Do I look like the sort of man who'd ever wear a pre-tied bowtie, or even worse, a clip-on?"

She concedes the point. "Admittedly not."

-oOo-

They make a very handsome couple. Even she has to admit that. A surreptitious passing glance in the full-length mirror on the landing confirms it. He is impeccably groomed; tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and she is small, slight and elegant. Grace baulks stubbornly at the idea of referring to herself as attractive – even in the confines of her own head – but Boyd doesn't have any such inhibitions. He sees her quick, furtive glance in the mirror and he stops, gently drawing her to a halt with him. He contemplates their joint reflection for a moment before dropping a soft kiss on her bare shoulder and saying quietly, "You're beautiful."

Grace feels the hot flush rising in her cheeks and instantly berates herself for it. She is what is often delicately termed 'a woman of a certain age'. She's far too old to be blushing at compliments, but blush she does, as much because she knows he's absolutely sincere as because she's uncomfortable with the words. Boyd doesn't see what she sees – he sees what she does not; Grace has slowly come to realise that. She sees every fault and flaw, just as she sees the stark evidence of every long, hard year written deep into her skin. She looks with coldly critical eyes, Boyd does not. It's a quality in him she definitely appreciates, his ability to look beyond the surface, beyond the superficial. She remains stubbornly convinced that the years sit far better on him than they do on her, but if he's ever thought the same he's far too gallant to say as much.

She turns into him, looking up into deep, dark eyes that regard her with warm, amused affection. Aware there is a slight catch in her voice, she says, "Peter…"

Boyd kisses her, stealing the words before she can speak them. Forceful enough to cause tiny shockwaves up and down her spine, gentle enough to make her instinctively melt into him, into his embrace. He holds her for a moment, as placid and patient as she's ever known him, and close to her ear his voice is a soft purr as he says again, "Happy birthday, Grace."

"I love you," she says. It doesn't seem to matter how many times she says the words – they remain the simplest, truest thing in the world.

-oOo-

Sitting in the back of the black cab, Boyd fights the irresistible urge to look at his watch. He was supposed to be the one driving, even though hiring a cab always made more sense. The broken wrist has necessitated a change of plan, and some last minute machinations that really do depend on split-second timing. Simply because he knew what he was looking for, Boyd saw the anonymous saloon parked at the end of the street. Grace didn't. Or if she did, she didn't recognise it. Spencer Jordan's car – not a police vehicle, but Spencer's own. Still fiercely willing himself not to check the time, Boyd tries to relax. It's not easy. There are a lot of things making him nervous, timing being only one of them.

"You're jumpy tonight," Grace observes.

She's too perceptive. As nonchalantly as he can, Boyd says, "It's the thought of how much this evening's going to cost me, Grace. My meagre pension's not up to it."

She snorts disparagingly. "Oh, I forgot – we're living right on the breadline, aren't we?"

"We bloody will be if you keep going shopping for crap in Covent Garden."

"Don't worry," Grace tells him. "If things get tight I'm going to sell that stupid car you insisted on buying and invest the proceeds in Fair Trade goods."

Not altogether joking, he growls, "Touch my Jag and I'm divorcing you. I've wanted that car all my life."

"We're not married, Boyd."

"Principle's the same," he informs her. He keeps the banter going for as long as he can, keen to distract them both, and she happily plays along with him, oblivious to the thoughts crowding in his head. He strives for a calm he doesn't feel, suppresses the nerves that are beginning to jangle. What seemed like the best idea he'd ever had is beginning to look like a potential disaster of truly epic proportions. Even worse, if things go spectacularly wrong they're going to do so in a highly public fashion.

Too late, Boyd is beginning to question the wisdom of everything he's so carefully planned.

-oOo-

The ordinary little girl from the very ordinary background whose most obvious assets were her formidable intelligence and her relentless will to succeed was never easily impressed. Nor is the remarkable woman she grew up to be. A number of would-be paramours have discovered that to their cost over the years. Grace is simply not won over by glib charm or reckless extravagance, but even she's a little impressed to find that their destination is not one of the big, obvious Park Lane hotels, but an address probably just as expensive but considerably more quirky and exclusive. The way her companion is watching her suggests he's not entirely sure he's made the best choice in the world, and the instinct to reassure him is immediate and powerful.

"It's lovely," she says, glancing round the big foyer with its sweeping architectural lines and its deliberately eccentric décor. "Thank you."

Boyd smiles, but he's very definitely still on edge. "I thought you'd like it."

She does. She likes the bar where they pause for civilised drinks, too, but nothing prepares her for the surprise awaiting her in the secluded area of the dining room that they are eventually escorted to. There are people waiting for them, familiar people in unfamiliar evening dress. Spencer looking embarrassed and highly uncomfortable in a dinner jacket; Eve wearing something impossibly glamorous and looking faintly smug about it. But not just Spencer and Eve. With them – unbelievably – the slight, gamine figure of Frankie Wharton, her expression amused and faintly cynical; she's accompanied by a tall, fair man who has the build of a rugby player and the studious air of an academic. Doctor Thomas Jackson, Grace rightly assumes, the long-term partner who's probably going to end up as the husband, sooner or later.

The idea of an intimate dinner shatters and disappears – but Grace doesn't care. Not at all. It's the best surprise Boyd could possibly have arranged for her. Absolutely the best. The food is good, the company is good and the drink and the conversation flow freely. Old friends brought back together for the evening, just to celebrate her birthday. Grace thanks them all in turn, and each of them graciously refers her back to the man at her side. This is his doing, not theirs, they say. He has done this for her, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Grace watches them all as the evening unfolds, watches the repartee, the easy comradeship. She watches the way they still automatically defer to Boyd, their erstwhile commander; not sullenly, not unwillingly, but with affection and respect. She starts to appreciate that they know the true heart of the man almost as well as she does. They tease, of course they do, but they know why she has made the choices she has. They know why she's with him, and they accept it. That means more to her by far than the gifts they solemnly hand to her, the kind wishes they make for her.

It's Frankie who leans into her as the hour grows late and says quietly, "I was going to ask if you're happy, but I really don't need to, do I?"

"You don't," Grace confirms with a smile. "He's a – "

"Please," Frankie interrupts quickly. "Spare me the whole 'he's a good man' speech. I really can't cope with it."

"Too nauseating?"

"A little. Looks like you're stuck with him forever now, hmm?"

Grace nods gravely. "Could be."

"Bad luck, Grace," Frankie says, but she's grinning as she says it. "Happy birthday."

-oOo-

**3: Surprise**

"So far, so good, boss," Spencer says quietly with a wide, knowing grin.

Boyd glares at him. "Just tell me what I want to hear, Spence."

"Everything's peaches and cream. No problems. Ball's entirely in your court, buddy."

"Fuck off," Boyd tells his former subordinate gruffly. The response is just a widening of the grin before Spencer drifts away again, back towards Eve, who's chatting animatedly with Frankie. The drink's still flowing like water and although Grace doesn't yet know it all of the party without exception are remaining in the hotel overnight; Boyd doesn't begrudge it, but he doesn't dare dwell on the size of the extortionate bill coming his way in the morning. He sincerely hopes it's worth it. Tries to tell himself it's definitely going to be worth it.

No-one's really focusing directly on him, which is good, but there's definitely an edge of anticipation in the air, has been all evening. They, after all, know exactly what he's up to. They're waiting for him, and that, more than anything else, is grating on his nerves. He's running out of time. He knows it, they know it. He hates the fact they know it. Boyd orders another glass of Scotch – Dutch courage – and takes his time enjoying the smooth burn of it. The number of quick, sideways glances being cast in his direction is increasing exponentially as the minutes tick by, no doubt about it. They're waiting, and for a moment he feels a touch of childish resentment towards them for it.

He's got to do this. He's been pushed firmly into a corner of his own making, and he's got to do it. Fuck the consequences. If it goes wrong, so be it. Boyd straightens up, levering himself away from the bar, and even before he squares his shoulders he knows that they know. This is the moment. It's now or never. He really has no clue why he ever imagined this was a good idea. He's walking, now, though, so it seems he's going to do it.

Grace smiles at him as he approaches, and he catches a brief glimpse of why he thought it was such a good idea. The metaphorical die is cast. Thomas, standing with her, falls back a polite fraction as he silently closes on them. Grace is still smiling, her happiness quite clear to Boyd, to everyone. Trying for a gentlemanly sort of insouciance, he says, "Grace, can I have a word…?"

Her look is one of mild curiosity, but she lets herself be drawn aside. She says, "Thank you. For everything."

Boyd doesn't need to look past her shoulder to know they're all staring gleefully. Inspiration strikes. "I need some air, come out into the courtyard with me."

Immediately, Grace looks concerned. "Peter? Are you all right? You've been edgy all evening."

"I'm fine, Grace. Just… come outside a minute, okay?"

She shrugs and smiles slightly, then takes his arm. With more relief than he'd ever admit to, Boyd leads her away from the bright, expectant eyes of their former colleagues.

-oOo-

It's December and it's pushing towards midnight. It's brutally cold out in the hotel's small, elegant courtyard, and she starts shivering immediately. Boyd sees, steps up behind her and draws her back against him, undamaged arm firmly snaking around her waist. He's very warm, and as ever, the sheer size of him is immensely reassuring. Grace leans back, absolutely secure in his grasp and glances up. As ever, the light pollution in the capital is very bad, turning the night sky a dull, malevolent orange, but she can still pick out the odd bright star here and there. "One day," she says, "I'm going to take you up to Scotland so you can see how the sky should look at night."

"I'm a city boy, born and bred," Boyd tells her, lowering his head to rest his chin on her shoulder. The feeling of the soft bristle of his beard against her bare skin is absurdly, inappropriately sensual.

Quickly banishing the stray thought, she says, "So? It's about time we thought about planning a holiday."

There's an overly long silence from behind her, one that makes her smile. She imagines he's valiantly trying to understand the concept. In the end though, he finally says, "Holiday or honeymoon, Grace, it's up to you."

She chuckles at the notion. "Just the thought of either would eventually reduce you to hyperventilation, Boyd."

"I'm serious," he says, his voice unexpectedly low and intense. "I'm asking you to marry me."

Not what she was expecting. Not at all. Startled, she pulls away from him, turns to look at him. "What?"

"Marry me," he says.

"Boyd…"

And there it is in his hand, the shine of gold, the flash of a diamond. Boyd watches her steadily, waiting for the answer. There's anticipation in him, and a hint of aggression, too, as if he's preparing for a fight he thinks is going to be long and bitter and bloody. Grace looks at the ring he's holding out to her, looks at the calm, set expression. He's never been more serious. And he's still waiting silently, stoically, and with uncharacteristic patience for an answer.

All the logical arguments for and against the idea chase through her head, quite clear but insanely fast. Head and heart pull in different directions, instinct tells her one thing, reason tells her another. Something inside her takes over. Something gathers all her conflicting thoughts and feelings together and neatly distils them into a straight choice – does she want to marry this challenging, complicated and highly volatile man, or not?

-oOo-

Boyd feels as if it's the longest wait of his life. Towards the end, he nearly breaks. Nearly, but not quite. He summons every reserve of patience he has and he stands firm with the wilful obstinacy that has characterised his entire life. He waits and he watches, and he says nothing. This is her decision. His has already been made and executed. He doesn't feel the biting December chill, he just feels the oppressive weight of the seconds marching slowly by.

It takes her a long time and somehow he isn't surprised. Grace looks at him and he looks back, still silent. He's not going to beg, he's not going to plead. He will fight if he has to, but not yet. For now he waits. She says, "All right."

The nonchalance of her response hits him like a hammer. "'All right'? That's the best answer you can manage?"

"Are you going to go down on one knee?"

"Absolutely not."

Grace shrugs. "Then you can make do with 'all right'."

Boyd stares at her. He starts to laugh. He can't help it. "God, you're contrary."

"_I__'__m_ contrary? Boyd, I take it you do know that old adage about people in glass houses not throwing stones?"

"Just take the damned ring and put it on, will you?"

It's just the way they do things, and for them, it works.

-oOo-

"I assume," she says, back in his arms rather more for warmth than for any great romantic reason, "that this is going to be one of those long engagements that never actually seems to end in a wedding?"

"About that," Boyd answers, and there's just something about his tone that makes her instantly suspicious. "I think there's something I should tell you…"

Grace sighs. She knows him too well to do anything else. "Oh, God… what have you done? Boyd…?"

So he tells her, and she isn't quite sure whether she's so furious with him she's never going to speak to him again, or so delighted with him that she'll forgive him just about anything. She still hasn't quite made up her mind when he escorts her silently back to their ex-colleagues – and the decision isn't helped by the way they're all grinning at her. Grace looks from one familiar face to another, the truth beginning to dawn. Fury starts to win out over delight. Pinioning Spencer – who's unfortunate enough to be the closest – with the iciest glare she can summon, she accuses, "You knew. The lot of you. You knew."

Eve and Spencer exchange looks. Frankie says, "Of course we bloody knew – you don't think he was going to do all the organising and running around himself, do you? Get real, Grace. This is Boyd we're talking about."

"Some of us were just born to lead, Frankie," the man himself says with a shrug.

Grace extends her scowl to include her newly-acquired fiancé. "And you can shut up, too."

The reply is an amused and distinctly specious, "Yes, Grace."

"This is ridiculous," she announces, glaring at them all. "At least Boyd has an excuse – he's always been as mad as a March hare – but the rest of you… What on earth were you thinking?"

Eve shrugs. "Actually, I think it's a good idea."

"How?" Grace demands. "How is it a good idea in any shape or form? This is London, not Las Vegas. You can't just get married at the drop of a hat – "

"Actually, you can," Boyd offers. "Pull a few strings, pay for a special license and – "

"Be quiet," Grace tells him sharply, and this time he says nothing, just lapses into smirking silence. Completely calm, she looks at them all one by one and very clearly says, "There's no way I'm getting married tomorrow. It's not practical, it's not realistic and it's not going to happen."

-oOo-

**Epilogue**

She's married a madman. As a psychologist, Grace finds an ironic, pleasing sort of symmetry in the fact. When the details of the conspiracy first began to unfold she started to comprehend the sheer scale of his folly, just as she began to understand that only Boyd would have the audacity to conceive and execute such a thing. Every detail meticulously planned and orchestrated, from Spencer and Eve's daring raid on the house seconds after the taxi pulled away to the hire of the sleek black limousine that's waiting for them.

She has definitely married a madman. She sees the knowledge plainly written on the faces of every last one of the limited number of invited guests; sees it in Spencer's grin and Frankie's slow, rueful shake of the head. _They_ know she's married a madman, _she_ knows she's married a madman. Even _he_ knows she's married a madman. But it's too late to worry about it now. The wedding ring is firmly on her finger and they've both signed the register. Happy birthday, Grace.

She knew there was at least a touch of madness in him the moment she met him, of course. The energy and the eccentricity, the wild extremes of mood and behaviour – it was all there before her from the very first meeting. A reckless, mercurial fireball of a man, calm and good-natured one moment, violently irascible the next. She's been the subject of the full fury of his temper more than once during their association, but she – more than anyone else present – knows the other side of him, too. She knows the gentleness of him, the placid strength of him.

They're walking back towards the limousine now, him in his immaculate grey suit, she in the elegant autumn-hued outfit quietly extracted from her wardrobe for the occasion and set aside for later collection by Eve and Spencer. Her arm is automatically looped through his simply because that's what they've grown used to. Amiably, Boyd says, "Truce?"

Grace snorts. "That would imply that I'm thinking about forgiving you at some point in the near future."

"Conventionally, I think the bride and groom are still supposed to be on speaking terms at this point."

"'Conventionally'? Interesting choice of word, Boyd."

"You're upsetting the children, Grace. They think you're still furious with them."

"I am still furious with them."

"God, you're hard work sometimes."

"Boyd?"

"Grace."

"Don't speak to me."

His grin doesn't fade. "Grace?"

She sighs. "What?"

"Happy birthday."

- the end -


End file.
